Free Murder on Marble Row by Victoria Thompson Page A

sharing a joke.
    Frank was aware of every person, judging each of them for any threat he might pose either to Sarah or himself. People fell silent as they passed, recognizing him for who he was and wondering what trouble he was going to bring to them. The police always brought trouble.
    He was so concerned with protecting Sarah that he almost didn’t notice she had stopped in front of one of the tenements. He nearly stumbled trying not to knock her over.
    â€œThis is where he lives,” she said, looking up as if trying to see inside the grimy windows to find the correct flat.
    â€œDo you know which number?”
    â€œNo, but I suppose everyone knows him.” A dirty little boy in mud-spattered rags stood in the doorway, watching them suspiciously. “Do you know where Creighton Van Dyke lives?” she asked him.
    He just stared back blankly.
    Frank’s instinct was to frighten the boy into telling, but common sense told him the kid might not even speak English.
    Sarah Brandt used a much more sensible approach. “A tall man,” she said, showing the boy how tall with her hand. “Yellow hair.” She pulled a lock of her own golden hair loose and wiggled it to illustrate her meaning.
    Frank saw the light of recognition on the boy’s grubby face. He produced a penny from his coat pocket. “Where is he?” he asked, holding up the penny for the boy to see.
    Greed brought a spark of light to the boy’s dull eyes, and he motioned for them to follow. He entered the dark hallway and started up the stairs, his wet feet leaving marks in the dust and dirt. Sarah followed, with Frank right behind. Naturally, the anarchists lived on the fifth floor, where the rent was cheapest. Frank was practically gasping by the time they arrived at the top of the stairs.
    The boy reached for his reward, but Frank held it away from him. “Where is he?” he repeated, nodding at the closed doors along the landing. The boy pointed at one of them, and before Frank could move, Sarah was knocking on it, as boldly as you please.
    Someone opened the door, and the boy snatched the penny and disappeared down the stairs before Frank could grab him. He heard Sarah asking for Creighton Van Dyke and braced himself to catch a fleeing fugitive.
    Â 
 
S ARAH LOOKED AT THE YOUNG WOMAN WHO HAD answered the door and knew she must be the one who had captured Creighton’s heart. She stared at Sarah through coal black eyes set in a delicate face framed in raven curls. Had she been born in another time and place, a great painter might have had her pose as the Madonna. The Madonna with child, Sarah mentally corrected herself, seeing the small mound beneath the girl’s apron.
    â€œIs Creighton Van Dyke here?” she asked. Sarah could see several men sitting and eating at the table in the kitchen behind the girl. They had paused to see who was at the door, but none of them looked familiar.
    â€œWho is it, Katya?” one of the men asked, rising from the table, and then Sarah recognized him, if only by his voice.
    The slender young man in evening clothes who had partnered her at her debut had become a different person altogether. His golden hair had darkened a bit, and his shoulders were broader and his body more solid. He’d grown a beard and wore the coarse shirt and pants of a laborer, although she noticed they were too clean to have encountered much actual labor. He stood almost a head taller than the girl, and he looked out at Sarah over her.
    â€œCreighton,” Sarah said in amazement.
    He frowned, squinting to see her in the dim light of the hallway. “Who . . . ?” he began and then recognition dawned. “Sarah? Sarah Decker?” he replied, even more amazed than Sarah.
    â€œIt’s Sarah Brandt now,” she said with a smile.
    His eyes lit with pleasure. “How are you?” he asked as if they’d met on a street corner somewhere. He hadn’t forgotten his